


ghosting

by destinies



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2014-11-06
Packaged: 2018-02-24 07:26:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2573165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destinies/pseuds/destinies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you told lies, here are three you would tell: there is nothing about your body that you would change; you are not in love with a ghost in a man’s clothing; you have never dreamed of dying in your sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ghosting

**Author's Note:**

> Also on [Tumblr](http://chelwritesthings.tumblr.com/post/101894743088/).

            The thing you say is, “Let’s go outside.”

            You say it and you’re expecting resistance, expecting to have to explain that maybe stretching his legs a little isn’t a bad idea and no one’s going to stare, but he just shrugs. And then it’s two minutes later and you’re zipping yourself into a windbreaker and he’s buttoning himself into one of your spare jackets, a grey pea coat that you bought two autumns ago when you didn’t know what to spend your money on. It suits him. His hair curls down over the collar. He takes a wool hat and pulls it down over his ears, and you put on a baseball cap. You keep a lot of hats around these days.

            You step out. He hesitates at the place where the door opens onto the street but follows you soon enough, hands burrowed down in his coat pockets. And then he walks alongside you, your footsteps resounding asynchronously with his on the gum-speckled pavement. The city is noisy, has always been noisy, but he is silent.

            Walking with him now feels different than it once did. When you were young, you tripped over your own feet trying to keep pace with him until he caught on and slowed down for you. You protested, said you were fine, but he slowed down anyway, smiled an easy smile that made your heart feel like it might burst. That was before you grew up. You have no trouble keeping pace with him now. In fact, you have to keep checking to make sure he doesn’t slip away behind you.

            If you told lies, here are three you would tell: there is nothing about your body that you would change; you are not in love with a ghost in a man’s clothing; you have never dreamed of dying in your sleep.

            You know this neighborhood like the back of your hand but don’t know where you’re walking, where you’re taking him. Eventually, you wind up in one of the many parks nearby. It really looks like November here, among the grass and trees. One or two straggling leaves cling to barren branches. The sinking sun boils the edges of low-hanging clouds. You breathe in, and even in the stale city air you taste the approaching winter chill. You hear him inhale beside you, picking up on your cues, and you think that he’s still breathing, at least.

            The two of you circle the park once, twice, in silence, and eventually you find an empty bench, clear it of crumpled napkins and coffee cups, and sit down. He sits with you. You remember sitting beside him in a different lifetime and silently testing out all of the words that could describe your feelings for him, trying to find the one that fit. And as you considered _love_ you thought _please not that_ because that would make things too complicated and you wanted it simple, wanted it to be something you could get over. But of course it was love, and even now that you’ve grown away and apart—not by choice—it lingers on. It was never something you could get over.

            You watch the joggers, the dog walkers, the skateboarders, the mothers and children, and then a miracle happens. All at once, he cracks a smile and cracks a joke so softly that you’re not sure you’re meant to hear. But you hear, and your mouth splits into a grin. For a moment it’s as it was. For a moment you are seventeen years old and in love with your best friend and it’s the end of the world.

            But you collect yourself. You are older and know better. The world has ended at least three times since then, and here you are.


End file.
